Hair
by Zighana
Summary: Draco Malfoy unintentionally gains fame after posting a few natural hair tutorials of his daughter online.


**Hair**

There's something funny about Merlin.

Merlin can, if he wishes, be a cruel and absolutely hilarious teacher in the lessons of life.

As I sit in the hospital room, head in my hands and ears taking in the screams of the woman I condemned, I realize I've been graced with one of Merlin's cruel jokes.

"I hate you," the woman screams, thrashing her head and gnashing her teeth like a caged animal. The nurses do what they can to comfort her, but no avail. If anything, it seems to make it worse.

"I hate you with every fiber of my being, you _son of a bitch_!"

I take everything she's throwing at me: her rage, agony, and confusion. I did this to her.  
I deserve this. She screams, curses, calls me every horrific name in the book and reminds me that out of all the mistakes she'd done in her life, I'm by far one of her worst ones.

I accept it.

"Push, Ms. Williams. You're almost there." The doctor calmly instructs. I sit at her side, watching this entire thing take place. I can't do anything, really; I have no experience in this sort of thing. Can't comfort her, can't aid her pain without harming her, and I certainly can't tell her to calm down because that'd agitate her more.

So I watch.

She pushes once more, and collapses on the bed.

A shrill cry breaks out through the room, and I see Merlin's cruel joke held in the doctor's arms.

"It's a girl."

His joke just keeps getting crueler and crueler.

"Would you like to cut the umbilical cord?"

Scissors in my hand, I make my way to the screaming child that's covered in blood and white foam. I snip it, and suddenly, a wave of calm washes over me.

I'm now a father.

I'm _officially_ a father.

"What will we name her," my voice seems to escape my lips. The mother lies back in the bed with our child, nursing her. Her tired eyes flicker to mine.

"Zora."

"Zora? What name is Zora?"

"A name that her great-grandmother had. Zora. Take it or leave it."

"Zora Narcissa Malfoy," I rub my chin in thought, "Has a nice ring to it."

"Zora _Annabelle_ _Williams_, Draco."

"We'll see."

Zora Malfoy, born at 8:15 PM, on a Sunday. I look at her cherubic face as she suckles milk, and I could think of the endless adventures and possibilities life would bring us. I could teach her so much, show her my world and watch those eyes sparkle with wonder, watch as she meets her grandparents for the first time…

Ice falls into the pit of my stomach.

My parents will get one look at her and be disgusted because of her heritage.

She's mixed; born to a Muggle mother and a Wizard father, a smear on my purist lineage. My elitist and racist ways have been compromised with a night of passion and now, my comeuppance has arrived in a bouncing, innocent, baby girl. I remember all of my teachings, all of the moments I've shunned and tormented my comrades because of who they came from. I remember my awful taunts at Hermione because of her not being Pureblood and think this is Merlin getting back at me, getting back at my family for all the wrong we've done. This is my debt for my racism.

My family will not accept her; they will disown me and destroy my daughter because she'll be the permanent stain on our family name. She will be known as a Mudblood and will be the biggest cosmic joke that will plague the Malfoy for generations to come. She might even be the death of me; I fear my father would kill me to erase their shame.

I think of all the horror and disgust I'll bring my family because of Zora, and feel that it is my fault she's condemned to such a fate. She never asked to be made. I owe her a debt.

"Zora," I whisper to her as she sleeps.

"I will make a promise to you: I will be the best father I can be to make up for all my wrongdoings. I will pay my dues by raising you right and with pride." My lips touch her forehead and I fight the tears that threaten to come.

"I will be a better father to you than my father has been to me. I promise."

I get one last look at her, and then I left the hospital after signing my name on her birth certificate.

From now on, I'll be in her life, whether the mother wants me to or not.

8 years later

Oakland, California

"Daddy!"

I jolt out of my thoughts. Zora is sitting on the swing, her thin legs lazily kicking the playground mulch.

"You stopped pushing me." She pouts, arms crossed. My Merlin is she spoiled.

Bookmarking the page in my book, I get up and walk towards her.

"You're old enough to push yourself, sweetheart." I respond.

"Yeah, but it's better when you do it, Daddy. You know how to make me fly like a bird!" She smiles her widest smile and I see the missing gap in her teeth from her recently missing tooth. I chuckle at the memory of her telling me the magic of the 'tooth fairy' (a concept only her mother understands) and I grab the chain-link ropes of the swing.

"Ready to fly, my little bird?"

"You betcha!" 

"Ready to soar in 3…2…1!" I pull the swing and give it the biggest push I could. Zora screams with glee as she flies backwards and comes back; her head tilted in the sky as her wild hair frames her face.

I could just photograph this moment and keep it forever.

"I'm flying, Daddy! I'm flying!" She lets go of the swing and jumps off into the air. My eyes wide as saucers, I could only watch as my little girl flies into the air and comes down at an alarming speed. Before I can catch her, she lands in the playground mulch on her bottom, dirtying the white jumper I just bought her and scuffing the Mary Jane shoes I spent hundreds of dollars on.

Her outfit dirty and damaged, her hair wild with chunks of dirt and grass, and her leg scraped raw from the impact, my baby girl never looked happier. Despite the fact that I'm beyond furious at the money wasted on her clothes and the fact she could have severely hurt herself, I sighed with relief that she's okay and happy. I'm just glad that with the swish of my wand, her outfit will be good as new and her hair will be cleaned and presentable by the time she'll be sent back to her mother Claire for the weekend.

After Zora was born, Claire and I have been on the most cordial of terms when it came to raising our child; Zora would stay with me for the week then spend the weekends, holidays, and breaks with Claire and their family. As convenient as it was for both of us, I knew Zora doesn't like it one bit.

She wants that two parent household, that ideal family image she draws in her diary when she thinks I'm not looking. She's tired of moving house to house and adapting to different rules and regulations and so am I. I want to make it work with Claire but I know it's pointless; we hardly know each other and aside from a few nights of glorious sex, the attraction isn't there. We're from two completely different worlds and that's the only barrier holding us back from a healthy relationship.

"Come on, let's get you home so you can get cleaned up and ready for your Mummy."

Zora crinkles her nose and crosses her arms.

"My mom's not a mummy, Daddy. That's just mean!"

Another disadvantage about our arrangement is the language barrier; my clipped English accent stands out among the strange and confusing American dialect. It does lead to some humorously embarrassing situations if you ask me.

"Okay, your Mum-Mommy, isn't a mummy. My apologies." That word feels so foreign on the tongue, but I know I must adapt.

I picked Zora up and place her on my back.

"Want to go grab a sundae on Fruitvale?"

"Yes, please!"

Oakland is by far the strangest place I've ever encountered; it's so diverse and has an honesty you wouldn't find in the Wizarding World. From the graffiti that paints the walls, to the dilapidated houses on MacArthur, to the loud music blasting rap music from one street and Mexican polka on the other, even to the variety of food that tickles the senses by smell, each avenue has a story, has a part in the culture that makes Oakland….Oakland. It's now my home away from home, where I can unwind and not care about how other people view me. It's pretty accepting here, and that's why I love it.

Fruitvale isn't far; a few blocks down and you're there. Fruitvale is one of those places that have colorful markets and even more colorful houses. They got a Baskin Robbins that Zora enjoys visiting, one where the lady working there piles her Banana Split high with whipped cream and chocolate syrup. I figured I'll treat her to it since I won't be seeing her till Monday.

As we make our way to the ice cream shop, I notice someone walking towards us.

"Hey, you with the kid!" The person hollers out. The person gets closer, and I could tell it's a woman with wild curly hair.

"Are you Almond_Joy_Lover47?"

_What?_


End file.
